


Craptastic Ficlets of the Other Kind

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a separate prompt and has nothing to do with the other chapters.</p><p>Chapters 1-6 Prompts for White Collar</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Illuminate

**Author's Note:**

> So I asked people to prompt me, they came up with the prompts, I came up with the response. You tell me, did it work? Each chapter name is the prompt

He tries to stay away from them. They know who he is. They have been following him since he was Danny. They knew who he was when he became Neal. He’s fairly certain they’ve watched him and waited for him his whole life.

So, it is not a surprise when they corner him in an alley way and shove him to the darkened places. They have been waiting on him, looking for him, and protecting him all of these many years. He waits as the leader strides up to him. He is young, younger than Neal was when he pulled his first con. His hair is spiked on one side and shaved on the other. He has a nose piercing where a thin sliver chain dangles and links to the one in his ear. There’s a net of chain and silver over that ear. Neal ignores it. Instead, he stares at the leader’s face.

The eyes are like a cat’s, pupils like slivers, irises like shorn dried grass. His lips curl upward as he focuses on Neal and the others – his gang- crowd him into the corner. There’s a price to be paid. Neal should know. All these many years and all these many adventures, how could one man be so lucky? It isn’t right. It isn’t logical. It isn’t natural.

No, none of it is.

The leader lifts his chin and then licks his lips. His face is young but his eyes are a million years old. “Tell me the price you’ll pay now? Tell me, what we get this time.”

Neal swallows back his fear and bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes the metal of blood. “What will you do?”

“Do?”

“How will you change it?”

“However you ask, young one. Whatever you want. We’re always here. But there’s always a price.”

The others giggle but the sound scrapes at the world like iron crashing and bending. 

“Get him out, get him free, and get him cleared,” Neal says. “Give him back his life.”

“Lots to demand,” the leader says with a raised eyebrow. “Do you have that much to pay?”

He is a pauper in their game and there is no confidence game he can throw to knock them off his path. “Yes.”

“You would cash it in now?”

Neal nods.

“All for this man?”

“Yes,” Neal says, surprised his voice is steady and stable.

“Then it is done.” 

The leader closes in and Neal backs against the brick wall. It is dark and shadowed and he had hoped to see the light, to know light before this end. He had hoped the world would be illuminated with fire and knowledge and life, but it is pitch as the grave as the leader cups his hand on Neal’s chin.

He gazes into Neal’s eyes and he swears he can feel the blue seeping away, he knows it is gone as his eyes reform, as the leader marks him. He will never see the light again. The leader strips him of breath, and hope. The leader devours with a simple loving touch. The leader takes everything that is Neal and turns him into something else, something that doesn’t belong in this world. The leader owns him.

Neal is no more.

He doesn’t remember the sun, or the beauty in the world. He remembers nothing, not even Peter.


	2. My Beautiful - with Neal or Diana

He hears the whispered words and tilts his head in question at them. He doesn’t ask, not in this place, this quiet place of healing. She leans over the bed, her arms like a cradle about him. His eyes are closed but his murmuring continues. 

Peter watches and worries. This is his place as team leader he put them into danger, and now, Neal has paid for it. Diana glances up at him from her place by Neal’s side. Her eyes are wide and dark and hold a certain kind of knowledge he wishes on no one. He says nothing, because there is really nothing he can say to her. 

Can he apologize? 

No, it would be an insult for him to apologize for asking her to do her job.

Can he tell her it will get better?

No, he is not a fortune teller; he does not know the future.

All he can do is ask her a question. Before it falls from his lips, she speaks again to Neal. 

“Shush, my beautiful, shush,” she says in a comforting tone. Her hands thread through his hair and he rests a little easier, a bit quieter.

When she looks up again at him, Diana says, “He told me, after.” She stops and then continues, “He told me when he was little Ellen used to comfort him by petting his hair and calling him, my beautiful.”

He nods; she keeps it up throughout the night and into day. She stays like a sentinel by his side. 

He realizes then, there is no question to ask of her. She did her duty. She is a fine agent. She has saved lives – one life in particular - by understanding the power of words. He smiles at her when she isn’t looking.

There are horrible things in this world, he’s just happy he’s witnessed something beautiful today.


	3. Prompt was a photo- see link in chapter summary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to photo [ here](http://dmk0064.livejournal.com/93006.html?thread=881998#t881998)

“Moz, you’re singing.”

“Oh, yes, yes I am.”

“You’re singing poorly.”

“Everyone is a critic.”

“Why are you walking down the street, singing poorly, and where’s my coffee?”

“Coffee? Ha! No need for coffee, no need for treasure.”

“Moz.”

“I bought this coffee at Starbuck’s*.”

“Saints be praised, why do I care?”

“Because of what kind of coffee it is?”

“Oh? Some new flavor? What?”

“Oh, yeah, some new flavor.”

“Yes, and what is it?”

“Finger flavor.”

“Finger? What is that some new type of social media experience I’m not into?”

“Sometimes, I fear for you.”

“Sometimes, I think I need to stop letting you drink wine at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Not wine, coffee. And it is finger flavored. Just look.”

“Good God! Mozzie, that’s a finger.”

“Yep, can you hear the cha-ching!”

“Someone lost their finger and you’re thinking of money?”

“The last score, my friend, and we have our fingers all over it.”

*****************  
*Starbucks does not serve finger flavored coffee as far as I know.


	4. Prompt was a photo2 - see link in chapter summary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was this [photo](http://dmk0064.livejournal.com/93006.html?thread=882254#t882254)

“You’re leaving, then?” Peter looks at him with those dark eyes. He can see the years they’ve been together play out in those eyes. He knows Peter wants to ask him to stay. 

“Everything’s set,” Neal says and looks away. He doesn’t want to see the unspoken question, the untouched want in Peter’s eyes. He’s suffered through it for four years. He can only tolerate looking and not touching for so long. 

“I can’t believe you’re going.”

“It’s been good, Peter. You treated me,” Neal pauses and gulps down his words. “You treated me like a man and not a con. I respect that.”

Peter’s brows furrow and he looks into the wind. It is cold today and the wind hits off the water with a particular brutality. Neal watches as he fights down the emotions and he quells the desire and want that always lurks right outside the perimeter of his influence. Neal has many charms, many wicked ways, but there is one thing he does not possess. The power to ask Peter to break his vows of marriage.

“You’ll stay in touch?” Peter asks.

“You know, the postcards, the birthday cards, all handmade.”

Peter chuckles a bit. “Of course, handmade.”

“I’ve got to go, my cab is here,” Neal says and points to the street.

Peter peers over his shoulder and then back at Neal. “You could stay; we could find you a place at the bureau.” The words come out in a rush.

Neal bows his head and his heart aches as if someone is spearing it through and through. He can’t do the dance anymore, not like this, never like this. “You know I can’t.” He’s never said such brash and blatant words before to Peter.

Peter closes his eyes and the words pierce them both now as Neal sees it shudder through Peter. They are saying good bye, forever.

In one motion, Neal cups Peter’s face in his hands and plunders his mouth. He devours the taste, the lips, the clack of teeth on teeth, the warring of tongues until it hitches deep and heavy inside of him, until he has to pull away.

“Goodbye, Peter,” Neal says as he drops his hands. He cannot say the final words. He turns around and opens the cab door. He glances once at Peter, sees the complete devastation etched there, a man torn in two by two loves. 

Sliding into the cab, Neal instructs the cabby. He doesn’t look back at Peter when he closes the door, he never looks back. He slumps against the bench seat and remembers the taste of a single kiss. He says the words he’s wanted to say for years, “I love you, Peter Burke.”

No one is there to hear them.


	5. Hangover

“So, you gonna tell me what you’re doing, babe.”

“Don’t call me, babe, Matthew. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Well, ya know, when you called and said you had a little problem and mentioned hangover, I thought. Ya know, I thought you got a little too familiar with a good bottle of scotch.”

“Not a fan of scotch, and I said I was on the hangover, not that I had a hangover.”

“Huh, my mistake, hon.”

“Stop it with the nicknames, Keller.”

“Now, I’m Keller? You harm me, Neal, seriously, you harm me.”

“You, I harm you? What about me?”

“I’m not the one on the hangover.”

“I called you for help.”

“And how exactly did you do that? Considering you are – you know – standing out there with all your junk free as the breeze hanging out there for the world to see.”

“I snatched her phone.”

“You stole the princess’ phone.”

“I thought it was a good idea, considering it was an emergency.”

“I see you also acquired one of her gold plated serving trays.”

“Why, yes, thank you Keller, for pointing out the blatantly obvious. I have a serving tray.”

“As a loin cloth. A new fashion statement, Caffrey.”

“Caffrey now.”

“At least, I’m using your name.”

“Are you planning on helping me?”

“Eventually, maybe.”

“Maybe? I thought we were partners.”

“Are we?”

“Matthew, this is not the time to have a crisis.”

“I think it is the perfect time.”

“They’re coming.”

“Who?”

“The princess’ family and her bodyguards.”

“That’s not good.”

“Probably not good for either of us.”

“Caffrey, ya know, the charm loses some of its appeal with you and that shiny plate, and your junk hanging out there.”

“I’m out on a ledge waiting for security guards to kill me, Keller, how dignified can I be?”

“Seriously, you almost pull it off.”

“Almost.”

“Okay, close, but I know you too well, Caffrey. I know the reason you have the serving plate covering your junk.”

“You do.”

“Oh yeah, babe, I do. I do.”


	6. Song Lyric by The Cure: "I hate these people staring, make them go away from me!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doesn't answer the prompt but these are craptastically written so what the hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression, canon death, and suicide watch

When the plane blows up, he cannot see anything but an orange fireball laced with Kate’s face. He sees her large eyes, luminous and bright, but the fire devours her, eats her away and he tries to pretend she wasn’t on the plane. 

There are hands on him, holding him back, holding him away. There are sirens ringing in his head, screaming over and again. The hands offer him strength and, for a moment, he wants to push them away. He wants the weakness that drains the ability to stand up, that consumes his last ember of hope in a happy ending, to conquer him. He would surrender to it. He has no other wish in this world.

Yet, the hands are there, holding him, helping him. Someone is talking to him. The words are soft and gentle and he has no idea what they are. There is a blur of sights and sounds and it all runs together into a very horrible place, into a place of absolute darkness. The hands pull him out; hang onto him as if they are the last threads of a fraying rope. He wants to disentangle himself; he wants nothing more than to be silent and selfish and feel nothing and be nothing.

The hands and voice ground him.

By the end of the day, there are swarms of people around him. He finds solace within those hands, within those arms, away from all the prying eyes. He finds comfort as Peter keeps him close. As the paramedics check him out and the officers come to arrest him again, it is Peter who protects him, it is Peter who wards them off. He wants the others away, he wants Peter to stay.

Eventually, Peter cannot hold back the law. 

Eventually, Neal sits in the orange of his new home and looks at the bars and doesn’t bother counting the days. He is lost and they are watching. The guards peer in on him, and check up on him. Someone put him on suicide watch. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t listen to them. He doesn’t eat or drink for the first forty-eight hours. He doesn’t want them looking at him. He wants to curl in the corner and fade into darkness of the shadowed place within his soul.

It is Peter who walks in and digs him out. It is Peter who persists and refuses to let him give up. It is Peter who fights for him and forces him to see the people staring at him, Mozzie, and June, and Diana, and Jones, and Elizabeth are not his enemies but his friends, his family. 

Fear and hatred of love cannot be his response. Peter cannot come to understand the loss of love and how that makes someone hate the idea of love. He tells this to Neal in soft tones when Neal is finally released again. He has never lost love the way Neal has. While Neal sits at the table in his apartment, Peter reaches across the expanse and says, “Don’t hate love, Neal. Don’t.”

“I don’t want love. I don’t want to feel like that ever again.”

“I understand how hard it must be.”

“You don’t.”

“Maybe not.” Peter nods. “You loved her very much.”

Neal’s eyes water and he says, “Not enough.”

“What?”

“I-.” Neal stops and bows his head as the tears stream down. “I would have stayed.”

In a whispered voice, Peter says, “Neal.”

“For you.”

Peter clasps the hand lying on the table. “Don’t hate love.”


	7. Overcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for prompts about the weather...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death but don't worry all is right with the world in the next chapter

It should have been a sunny day. But it wasn't.

It should have been a day of celebration. But it wasn't.

It was one of those days that looked like it could not decide whether or not it wanted to rain or it wanted to clear up. It reminded him of those mixtures of emotions, those times when he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. 

As he looked up at the clouds, heavy in their purpose but discontent in their meaning, he breathed in the air. It wasn't fresh and new, nothing was, not now, maybe not ever. But he walked out of prison on an overcast day and smiled at his wife.

He counted his blessings, and tried not to think of the sacrifice made to earn him his freedom. 

Elizabeth linked her arm in his and they walked to the car as if they were out on a Sunday stroll. Leaning against him, she asked, "What would you like to do first?"

"See him."

She frowned a little and lines that hadn't been there before, before this whole diaster appeared around her eyes and mouth. "You're sure."

"I owe him that much."

They drove away from the prison, and he forgot to look back. He had been exonerated, freed, because of one man's sacrifice and another man's fortitude. He owed too much, and too much had happened to make it up.

Once they parked the car, and he climbed out, he inhaled and waited. He walked the pathway and wished he had something to offer. All he possessed, all he had was his gratitude.

Sitting down by Ellen's grave, he touched the headstone next to hers and whispered, "Thank you, Neal."

He hadn't even been allowed to attend his friend's funeral. 

He heard it had been an overcast day.


	8. Foggy Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for prompts about the weather

There's a place off the D.C. metro called Foggy Bottom. He's often wondered if it was named after Advection Fog where there's fog on the bottom but clear up top. It could be, but he's never looked into it.

Since his life turned upside down, Neal keeps his head down and his eyes on the ground. He ticks off the number of days he has until his indentured servitude ends, which is futile since Kramer keeps finding ways to increase his sentence. 

Peter can do nothing. He's too far away and too powerless to stop someone so powerful in the government. Neal is stuck in the fog and, though, he might be able to see the sun beyond, the fog engulfs him. 

He lives in this place of corruption and need. He lives in D.C. now because he couldn't do that to Peter, he couldn't run. So he stayed and he let the fog eclipse him. 

Someday, he hopes to see beyond the fog, all the way up to the clearing. Someday.


	9. Spring Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for prompts about the weather

It is April.

It is Spring.

Paris rules the air.

Electric rising and he smiles. The skies blaze with natural fireworks and the Tower shines eerily at night.

It could be any time, any place. But tonight it is here, with her standing close. It is here with the smell of her still on his skin. It is here with the storm threatening and the wide world open to him. 

He is here with her in Spring. It is Paris. It is ozone burning bright in the air. He tugs her close, kisses her thoroughly, and never forgets he promised her everything.

She curls into him, a smile on her lips as she makes her wish. 

He believed in the classics once, he believed at love at first sight, he believed in fairy tale romance.

How did he ever not know that a love he had to work for would be so much more satisifying, right, wonderful, and patient? How did he not know that the fire of passion isn't love, but the fire of truth is.

She moves away from him from the balcony into their suite of rooms. Their fingers trail together, as she whispers, "Come back to bed, Neal."

He turns and smiles. Paris is electric in the Spring time, but Sara ignites his soul.


	10. Heatwave and Thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for prompts about the weather

This is not good. Not good at all. He tries to concentrate but the one thought keeps running through his mind. The prediction was that today the heat would top off in the triple digits. A great day to swim and relax, and take it easy.

Not a great day to get stuck in a crate by a maniac.

Not a great day for a sting where his tracking anklet has been removed for the greater good.

The greater good of whom?

Or is it who?

He's confused now, that is not good. 

How long has he been in the crate? 

It must be over a hundred degrees in the crate, at the very least. His arms are bound behind his back and he's lying on them. He cannot get the leverage to slip them. There's barely any room to manuver with his knees pressed against his chest. He's tried to kick out, and get the lid to budge but no such luck. 

He's stuck inside a packing crate on the side of a dock, in the middle of August, during the dog days of summer. The sweat dripping in his eyes doesn't matter because there is no light, except for a sliver of light near the lid.

How long has he been in the crate?

He called, and screamed until his throat was raw. No one came. 

He keeps trying to remember the signs of heat exhaustion or heat - what is it called? Hyperthermia? Is that even a word? He knows freezing to death is hypothermia so it stands to reason that burning to death - no that is not right. Over heating - that sounds better. That should be what? Hyper - 

Yes, he's hyper - hyper aware of the fact that he can no longer feel his fingers. Is he freezing to death? Is that it. Frostbite, that does not sound right at all. He can't feel his legs, but they feel like logs across his chest. He cannot take in a full breath anymore. There's no air.

He must be dying. He can't see. Is he blind? The light at the crack is gone. He hears something roll and crash. Then the light is there like a bolt and it jars his senses. The sounds of thunder follow. 

Rain. 

He wishes he could feel it. He cannot think? Who always finds him? Who? What was his name again?

There's a sound different from the thunder and its cracking and gnawing at his senses. He's not sweating anymore, but he is deliriously hot. Who is going to find him? There's always someone to find him?

Light floods the crate as the crack he'd heard turns into a full yawn of the bolts giving and loosening his prison. 

"Damn it, call a bus, now!"

Someone is gathering him in their arms. Someone is releasing him from his bonds. He cannot remember who. But his head is on his shoulder as the rain patters and hits his face. He opens his parched mouth to catch some of the rain and a lip of a bottle is placed there.

"Drink, Neal, drink."

He does and the name comes back to him. "Peter."


	11. Snow Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for prompts about the weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah you don't know Batcat if you haven't read my other stories about him....Let's just say he's a winged cat that talks....

Neal is curled on the couch. Again. He hasn't changed from his pajamas in two days. He has Satchmo lying with him and he has a big bowl of popcorn on his chest. 

Batcat is sitting on his head.

"When did he get here?" Peter asks. He was going to insist on Neal showering, since they do have hot water, and he is starting to stink just a little bit. The snow storm has not knocked out the power.

"Batcat cometh and goeth as Batcat pleases," the small creatures says as he pokes Neal in the face with his claws. 

"Cometh and goeth? What the hell kind of talk is that?" Peter says and rubs his temples. What the hell? How is this his life?

"Irritables lawz mans should maketh soupeth for Hero."

"Irritables lawz man willeth notith."

Neal peers over at him and says, "I could use some soup." He sneezes just to emphasize the point that not only is he stuck at Peter's house during a snow storm, but he is also sick with a winged cat on his head.

Where was Elizabeth when he needed her? Out in California, that's where. 

"Okay, I'll warm up some of the chicken noodle soup that El left," Peter says and starts toward the kitchen.

"Irritables laws man?"

He turns and looks at Batcat.

"Batcat has hungers in its belly."

"Good luck with that." Peter mumbles and goes to the kitchen. He hears Batcat mutter to Neal.

"Maketh irritables lawz man watcheth The Avengers againeth."

He swears he hears Neal snicker.


	12. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ASked for prompts about the weather

There are ice crystals in his eye lashes, like a shroud of glistening whispers from the gods laid over his quiet body. Peter ran to his side as soon as they'd hunted down and found Neal. 

The first thing that Peter thinks when he crouches down is that he's too late. For the first time, he didn't find Neal on time. His body is perfectly still, his skin like blue ashes. When Peter grasps his hand it reminds him of the coldness of the grave. It reminds him of darkness and gray weather. It reminds him of death.

The paramedics are pushing Peter out of the way. They're lifting Neal's motionless body (a body that still cannot be breathing - it just can't be). They race to the ambulance and Peter stands there, freezing with Diana by his side. She has a hand on his shoulder and is telling him to come, let's go to the hospital.

A tear runs down his face and it is cold like ice. He wonders how long it would take to freeze on his face in this frigid prison they held Neal in. But he is warm and living. And Neal? 

"Come on, boss, let's go," Diana says in her strong and steady voice. "Neal is waiting."

"Waiting," he says and the word doesn't make sense until he states it. "Waiting?"

"They found a pulse."

The only reason he stays on his feet is her grip on his shoulder and her unwavering support.

He closes his eyes and then says, "Let's go."


	13. Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fic

It isn't the beautiful ring June gave him that he'd once offered to her on the top of the Empire State building. It isn't a diamond at all. Instead it is a pearl, soft and sweet. 

He can't afford much anymore, now that he's gone straight and he doesn't con. He was released from service to the FBI two years ago. He decided to try and make it as an artist.

Easier said than done.

So he put together his little dream and he boards a plane. She does not know he's coming, he gave her no clue. They've stayed in touch, but nothing special. Yet, he knows down deep there has always been something special between them.

He presses his hand to his pocket where the ring lies next to his heart, and watches as the plane takes off for England. There was another plane, at another time, with another beautiful woman waiting for him. It was tragic and painful and still eats away at the pit of his soul. 

Yet, this plane promises more and he doesn't hold on tight because he feels light and airy. He feels like the world is floating away. He smiles. It will be only hours now and he will find out if she is his forever, or lost to him for good.

It isn't a diamond, but it is his heart.


End file.
